


When he comes over the Mountain

by Sand_Cursive



Series: Mountains made soft [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/Sand_Cursive
Summary: "Muriel." He grunts his acknowledgment and you ask before you lose your nerve. “Did you know me? Before?”OrYou can’t tell me that every single apprentice isn’t ready to throw hands for Muriel after that first meeting.





	1. Chapter 1

You’re sitting on the forest floor, packed dirt warm beneath your legs, your head tilted upwards to catch the sun’s shifting rays through the overhead leaves. You can hear the scratching of the chickens behind you, light clucking and the shifting of feathers. The light is soft and familiar.

There’s a shuffling, large steps approaching and you let your head fall back. “Muriel,” you say, not quite able to bend far enough back to see him. You’ve become so comfortable here, with him. Like you know him even though you haven’t spent much time together. He grunts his acknowledgment and you ask before you lose your nerve. “Did you know me? Before?”

“No,” he says gruffly, with all the cadence of a lie. You drop your head forwards again and close your eyes. “Oh.” You can’t turn your head to catch his eyes. You are afraid.

When you had come to him, that first night, to find him frightened and bleeding in the woods, he had not been pleased to see you. You’d bullied him into accepting your aid, but the reluctance had been a strong base note even up until he’d passed you that sachet of myrrh. Who had you been, three years ago? You are not brave enough to challenge his lie. You are not brave enough to ask.

Discomfort burrows its head deep into your gut and you shift uneasily on the ground. The sun suddenly feels too bright, too illuminating, and you shy away from the spotlight. You feel an apology crawling its way up your throat but you swallow it. You don’t know how to say sorry to a stranger.

You can feel his heat, his solidity, still behind you. He hasn’t moved. Waiting.

“Are you feeding the chickens now?” The shock presents as an exaggerated pause. Then, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” you say, pushing yourself to your feet. You finally turn to him, and give him a quick smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “I should get going. I’ll see you.” He watches as you skirt widely around him, the surprise evident in his face, his posture. He doesn’t move to stop you — doesn’t say anything at all.

You push forwards through the trees without looking back.

* * *

 

You haven’t been to visit in some days. Guilt settles over your shoulders, even as you reason that you’re busy, that he prefers to be alone. That you don’t even have much reason to see someone you barely know. Never mind that you know there’s an angry, violent half-goat ghost wandering the forest and prone to attacks. Never mind that you like the serenity of his place in the forest, the way the light slants half-obscured to fall softly at your feet. The way he moves, tall and lumbering and gentle. Never mind that you’re worried about him.

You close your eyes and sigh, letting your head brush one shoulder as you worry your forehead. You’re being so stupid. You’d visited him nearly every other day after. Just to check up on him, you’d reassured yourself, except you’d already healed his wound and you were fairly certain the damned goat ghost was wandering the abandoned wing in the castle, if those god-awful sounds at night were any indication. You’ve grown so used to his company.

It’s been a few days. You regret asking, but maybe it’s been long enough to pretend that you hadn’t.

You steel your resolve, grabbing a warm loaf of pumpkin bread from the baker (and olive bread too, you think he might like that). You’re about to head off towards the forest, apology warm and fragrant in your arms, when you see a whip of tattered black cloth fluttering into an alley, and hear the telltale clank of chains. “Muriel?”

You dart forwards, desperate not to lose him in the crush and maze of the market. You spin out of the way of several older ladies, their hands laden with groceries, and slip hastily into the alleyway. You’re sure he went this way, but in the darkened gloom created by the tall, narrow walls, you can’t see him. Were you wrong? You take several careful steps forwards, before turning to a narrow set of stairs. You can see a figure, large and tall, lumbering near the top.

He moves fast.

“Muriel!” you call, and the figure doesn’t turn but you can see it stiffen, the wide set of what must be his shoulders drawing into a tight, straight line. “Muriel, wait!” He sets forwards again, jerky, and you jump up the steps, two at a time. He must be angry. The guilt draws tighter over you, fitted now like a jacket. “Please wait!”

He keeps moving. You go faster, nearly leaping upwards, eyes firmly on the steps to keep yourself from tripping until you slam right into his back. You bounce off, the steps behind you rushing up to embrace you when he turns and grabs your arm. “Thanks,” you pant, grateful.

He eyes you impassively and you swallow. “I was just on my way to see you,” you say meekly, holding up the loaves in your arms. “Are you hungry?”

“Why have we stopped?” a nasally, imperious voice cries, and you nearly jump. His large frame takes up nearly the entire alley and you didn’t realize there might be people in front of him. You try to peer around him but you aren’t tall enough to look. Being on a lower stair isn’t helping.

“Sorry!” you call out to the (man?) behind him. “We’ll just get out of your way.” And you reach up to tug on Muriel’s hand when your fingers brush against something long and metal and taut. Chains. You furrow your brows, uncomprehending. “Muriel?” you ask, looking carefully into his face, and he looks away. “What’s going on?”

“Hurry up!” the voice declares, and you back up a step, hand still on his. Urging him down with you. He shakes you off and moves to take another step up. “Come on, we don’t have all day!”

You reach forwards but his back is to you now, warm and solid and impenetrable. You follow quietly behind.

When the mouth of the staircase opens up into a landing you have to blink to adjust to the bright afternoon light. Muriel keeps moving and you reach a hand out and grasp the edge of his cloak so you aren’t left behind.

“Magician!” an exclamation of surprise is issued by a now-familiar and increasingly grating voice. You blink owlishly, coming face to face with Praetor Vlastomil. “What are you doing here? On your way to the palace too, I suppose? Well, we might as well go together.”

He takes in your hand on Muriel’s cape and chuckles. “I’d be wary about latching on to strangers if I were you. This here is the Scourge of the South, fearsome gladiator and Lucio’s undefeated champion!” You blink uncomprehendingly, eyes sliding to Muriel who is now glaring at the ground, studiously avoiding you.

“Lucio’s . . . champion?” you ask. You don’t know what to say to that, so you grasp onto the first thing that you understand. “If he’s the count’s champion, why is he in chains?” You can see now, the long metal snaking from his wrists and his collar, manacled between his ankles. The ends are held by no less than six palace guards, leading him back towards the palace like a wayward animal. The image sets something dark and dangerous deep within you, and you shake your head a little to dislodge it.

The Praetor merely waves his hands idly. “Well, he is the most fearsome gladiator Vesuvia has ever seen! He’s little more than a beast!”

You can feel the something dark and dangerous turning hot and bright, and you fight to keep your voice under control. Trying for reasonable, you say, “I though the gladiator matches were finished now that the count is gone. Why is he in chains? Where are you bringing him?”

Vlastomil chuckles. “Well, the Countess is bringing back the Masquerade, so I’m sure now is the time to start bringing back all of Vesuvia’s old traditions and entertainment! She can hardly object now that I’ve captured her a warrior.”

“Captured?” you say quietly, the word sharper than a knife’s edge. You can feel rage trembling in your fingertips, magic rushing through you unbidden and boiling. You imagine, just for a single, blissful moment, the Praetor’s skin peeling back from his hide, flayed and bloodied and still much more than he deserves. He flinches as if he can sense your thoughts before his features smooth back into place. “You can’t do this, he is a man not an animal. He hasn’t committed any crime!”

The Praetor shrugs. “No, but he belongs to the state. He is our champion.”

You can feel a snarl building in your throat, and even if Muriel might not be an animal you’re starting to think that you are. “He belongs only to himself.” You lift your hands and Vlastomil flinches away, expecting some magic, but instead you turn towards Muriel. You brush your fingers along his chains and the links fall, separate and unbroken to the ground. Then you grab his arm (maybe too tightly, sorry, sorry, _sorry_ )and you say, “Run.”

Vlastomil shrieks and you turn back, only briefly, to send a staggering volt of electric energy in his direction. He convulses and you turn back, petty satisfaction making your steps lighter even though you can feel the guards thundering on your heels.

You tug Muriel towards the mouth of another alley, take him through two left turns and a sharp right and break yourselves into a tiny private courtyard off a nearly invisible side street. Then you lay back against the wall and drop to the ground, exhausted. “Sorry,” you say, giving him an apologetic look from your spot on the floor. “But I needed him to not remember that. I’d really like to not get arrested.”

He levels you a quiet look that doesn’t seem entirely pleased. “Why did you do that?” You shift uncomfortably. “Shock him? I just. Uhm. I got kind of angry. I won’t do it again.”

His look doesn’t get any more transparent. “Why did you break my chains? Why did you drag me down these alleys?”

Your throat closes, feeling tight. You are so _arrogant_. He never asked for your help, he didn’t even _want_ it. You swallow, mouth dry, but no words return to you. You drop your gaze, twisting the strap of your bag in your hands. “Sorry,” you say quietly. “I didn’t mean to interfere. I just.” You let out a low sigh. “I couldn’t stand the way they were treating you.”

He’s quiet, and for a moment you think he’s left, he must be so _incensed_ , but he shifts and suddenly he’s sitting beside you. You lift your head, turning to him. He’s not looking directly at you, but his gaze his soft. “Thanks,” he finally says, a little bit gruff. You can see red creeping down his cheeks, towards his neck. “That’s . . . nice.”

You lift your bag into your lap. “I didn’t mess anything up for you, did I?”

He looks surprised. “No.”

“Oh,” you breathe, and you finally allow yourself a smile. “Okay. I’m glad.” You lift the flap and pull out a loaf of bread (pumpkin). You wave it under his nose and he sniffs involuntarily. You can hear the rumble loud from beside you and laugh. “Are you hungry?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze, the blush already reaching well below his collar. But he accepts the half you offer him, tearing small chunks with large hands. He eats very quietly, you notice. You lift your own piece of spiced bread and bite. 

"You can shock him again, if you want."


	2. Slumber Part(ies)

You trudge relentlessly up to the now familiar path, eyes out for Asra’s hanging charms. Each step feels wooden, limbs heavy. In any other circumstance you’d be wary, on the lookout for a petulant ghost goat eyeing you from behind the trees. But, unfortunately, you have a pretty good idea of where he is these days.

Your steps are dragging by the time you reach the hut. You can see Muriel off to the side, a squat, wavering lump as he bends to spread the feed. He turns at your approach, and you wave your arm in a lethargic half-wave. One look at the bags dragging under your eyes and he stands, bracing against his thighs, and goes to open the door for you. You pat his arm absently as you wander inside, collapsing into the pile of blankets on his bed.

You mumble something unintelligible into the furs. He stands, waiting patiently, and you finally lift your head to ask. “Have you seen Lucio lately?”

“No,” he says, wandering over to the fireplace. You burrow into his blankets. “Not for a while.”

“S’good,” you mumble, clutching a mess of blankets against your chest like a pillow.

He shuffles awkwardly as you get comfortable. “You’re tired.” It’s not a question.

“Mmm,” you agree. And then, “I love your bed.”

The cup clatters a bit too loudly near your head, and you jolt upright. There’s a mug on the stool beside you, something warm and fragrant steeping. You catch his eye, feeling suddenly more awake. “Is that for me?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze, red lapping over his skin like a summer tide, so you take that as a yes. You lift the cup to your lips and sip slowly. It’s earthy and spiced and unbelievably delicious. Muriel flinches as you tip the cup back, but you’ve long since mastered the art of drinking hot tea.

“Thank you,” you say, your cup already half drained. “It’s really good. What is it?”

He turns to get the kettle, now cooling on the tabletop. “Mugwort. Fennel.” He pauses a moment, thinking. “Dates. Anise. Sage.”

“You made the blend yourself?” you ask, delighted. He shrugs and you take another sip. “That makes sense.”

“Why?” he asks suspiciously.

“It reminds me of you.” You inhale softly. “It’s comforting.”

He turns away, but what little you can see of his neck is flushed. You smile into your drink. If he keeps avoiding your eyes like that, he’s going to forget what you look like. So you pour yourself more tea and tell him so.

He’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder if you’ve teased him too much when he says, “I could never forget.” From anyone else this would be flirting, but the way he says it is impossibly sad. Angry. You swallow your questions with a sip of tea, and it scalds your throat.

“Sorry,” you say, when you can’t take the silence any longer. “I shouldn’t keep imposing on you like this. I’ll head back to the palace.” He still doesn’t turn to look at you, and you don’t think you want him to, anymore. “Thanks for the tea.”

He heaves a sigh, and with some effort forces a gruff, “Stay.”

You start to rise unsteadily, and he finally comes over to you. It is the first time when you have known him and been intimidated by his presence. His hand hovers uncertainly over your shoulder before he sets it gently down. “Stay,” he says again, and he doesn’t push, just follows you as you settle back on his bed. “You won’t make it very far after drinking all that tea anyway.”

“The . . . tea?” you repeat thickly, and he cuts a curt nod. “It’s just supposed to relax you. I thought . . .” and he pauses for so long you can’t be sure that you didn’t briefly fall asleep. “I thought that you were going to rest here for a while.”

“Why would you think that?” you ask, purposely not looking at the guilty nest you’ve made of his blankets. He graciously ignores the question.

“Lie down,” he says gently. “I’ll wake you before it gets dark.”

“I don’t want to take over your bed,” you protest feebly.

He snorts. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. I’m not using it.”

 _Do you want to be?_  you wonder, half delirious with exhaustion. Then regret hits you immediately and you think, if the universe has ever cared about you at all, you won’t have said that out loud.

When you wake, he’s huddled on the ground beside you, the line of his shoulder rising and falling smoothly with each breath. You prop yourself up on one elbow and peer over his shoulder to see what he’s doing. A small piece of wood is held carefully in his hands, a knife running smoothly up and down the grain, his brows furrowed in concentration. He’s _whittling_ , you realize, and you’re so intrigued you nearly hold your breath, afraid to disturb him.

You try to inch closer to make out some identifying details. Your breath accidentally ghosts across the shell of his ear and he jumps, the knife slipping wildly upwards and into the pad of his thumb. Blood beads generously about the gash. You hiss sympathetically, feeling terrible for surprising him. “Sorry,” you say softly, your hand already reaching for his. He flinches away, just briefly, just for a second, but you still feel the sting of it bright against your heart. It doesn’t fade entirely even when he lets you take his hand in yours, your finger running gently over his cut. Magic comes warm and fluid to your extremities and the skin knits itself together. You wipe the blood carelessly on the hem of your shirt. “Did it hurt?”

He shrugs, which you decide must mean _a little_. Your hand hovers over his shoulder, wanting so badly to offer comfort for this insignificant hurt, but you aren’t sure that you can take that kind of liberty. Instead you curl your fist back into the blankets and look down. “Is it dark out?”

He stiffens, like he didn’t expect the question, and turns his head to the window. The drawn curtains don’t disguise the fact that light is no longer trying to break through. “Yeah. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” you say, scrubbing your palm against your forehead. You should have been back at the palace by now. You wonder, idly, if Lucio’s dumb furry ass is missing you, if the dogs are sniffing around your empty bed and trying to decide where you’ve gone. You wonder if he’s disappointed. You turn your gaze to the window, trying to gauge the distance the night has gone. “I didn’t mean to monopolize your bed for so long.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs. “It looked like you needed the sleep.”

Something pricks against your chest that you brush instantly aside. You don’t think you’re ready to examine what that is, just yet. “Well. I guess it’s your turn now. I should get going.”

He finally turns to look at you. “It’s dark out now.” His posture is more relaxed than you can recall seeing before, his hands open. You can almost see the thing that he was carving. “It’ll be dangerous.”

You give him a nervous smile, and wiggle your fingers a little. “Magic,” you say, doing your best to project a confidence you don’t feel. He only gives you a level look, and you have to look away. “It’ll be fine?” It ends up being more a question than the sure assertion that you’d been trying for.

“You can stay the night,” he says, shifting uneasily against his own bed frame. Your head whips towards his, but he’s turned away, posture suddenly guarded. “Until it’s light out. Safe,” he amends.

Your tongue feels dead in your mouth. “I couldn’t possibly intrude.”

He still isn’t looking at you, but the tension leaks out of his shoulders. Almost like he’s . . . _amused_. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

You nearly gasp. “Muriel are you . . . _teasing_ me?”

You can see him starting to tinge just the barest pink, but he doesn’t rescind his offer. That alone is enough to make the silence bearable. You beam at his broad back, feeling ten degrees warmer even though the fire has already started winding down.

“Muriel?” you ask, sitting upright on his mattress. He grunts an acknowledgment, and you can feel the edges of a smile beginning to curl. You pat the space beside you loudly. “Are you coming to bed?”

He freezes in place and you can barely keep the giggle from bursting forth. He’s so sweet. He shuffles from one foot to the other, then walks over to a low shelf on the wall, where he places the short wooden piece. The shape of it is clearer now, the form more distinct.

It almost looks like you.

* * *

 

Dust motes float like flakes of molten gold, spinning lazily through the air. How appropriate, you think, that even the dirt in the palace is precious. As though Nadia would allow anything less. You let your eyes flutter shut, the golden light still dancing on the inside of your eyelids.

You’d finally gotten a decent amount of sleep yesterday, with Muriel. _With_ him. You can feel your face burning, and settle ice into your hands to try and cool your skin. It’s been so long since you’ve felt so comfortable. So _safe_. You hadn’t even really expected him to join you in the bed, had already been getting ready to relinquish his warm mattress so he wouldn’t feel obligated to sleep on the floor. You’d never imagined he’d crawl hesitantly under the covers with you, his form large and solid and even warmer. You’d nearly gone catatonic from the shock, from the sheer unexpected _magic_ of it, and had pressed yourself back against the wall to give him more room. Not that that could have ever been enough. Afraid of forcing him off the bed as a result of his intense attention to personal space, you’d placed a hand on his shoulder, gentle and still tentative, and drawn him closer. “Do you mind?” you’d asked, voice low and hushed, “Sleeping a little bit closer?”

You’d felt his temperature jump abruptly under your fingers, but he hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t gotten any closer, either, so you’d drawn him back with you, nearer to the wall, crushed between his solid back and the cold touch of his hut. He is a study in impossible contradiction: solid and hard and yet impossibly gentle. When you’d awoken the next morning, nearly an hour ahead of him, you’d been curled against him, his strong arm encircling your back, drawing you close. You’d been nearly afraid to breathe, to speak, to break the magic of this moment. Just watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his face relaxed with sleep. The heart breaking kindness you could see etched in every line of his face. And before you’d even realized, the morning was breaking true and his breathing was coming faster, you could see the lids of his eyes working as he woke and —

Nadia’s questioning gaze comes into your field of vision, and you jump, flushing profusely. She’d been calling your name and you hadn’t been paying attention.

“Sleep with me tonight,” you blurt out, thoughts still generally unorganized. She starts at that, genuinely caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

You take a deep breath. “Allow me to speak freely, Countess?” you ask her, and she gives a slight nod, curious. (“Only because I suspect a genuinely intriguing answer,” she tells you, eyes sharp). “Your husband, the Count” (and she makes no reaction at that, only inclines her head), “the whiny, self-entitled, overly self-important child—,” (and here her eyes sparkle with mirth, and you can see her fighting back a startled laugh). She clicks her tongue and says your name with a slight scold. “Really, I expected better of you than to speak ill of the dead.” But her voice is amused.

You stiffen slightly, aware that you’ve more than bypassed the line of respectability. “I apologize Countess, I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Although I assure you I do not speak badly of those that cannot defend themselves.” She straightens in her seat. “Defend themselves? Whatever do you mean?”

You sigh and bury your face in your hands. “You idiot husband has been getting me up every night so he can first terrorize and then generally annoy me. He wanders in the abandoned halls of his old wing, like an overly dramatic King Hamlet who doesn’t care about finding his murderer. Mostly he just stands around yelling at me and complaining about his life - or lack thereof.” You heave a huge sigh, rubbing your temples. “I just feel like things would be a bit more productive if you came and talked to him.”

“He’s a ghost?” she asks, surprised. “I never imagined—”

“No. No, no no,” you say, waving your hands. “He’s not a ghost. He’s something else. Something infinitely worse and more just generally awful. He can . . . _interact_.”

“Interact?” she asks, her voice slipping into pragmatic. Ever the scientist, seeking out the truth. She steeples her fingers together, thinking. “How curious.”

You watch her a moment, waiting, but her focus never returns. “So?” you ask finally, still half lying on the table. “Will you go tonight if he comes for me?”

The look she levels at you is sharp. “Of course. I’m very interested in seeing what he has to say for himself after all this time. I’ll stay with you in your room tonight.” Then she tilts her head, considering. “Save some of the wine for me.”

* * *

 

  
You finally understand what she means when Portia comes knocking at the door that evening, a bottle of something tall and dark in her arms. “The Countess asked me to bring this to you for tonight. You must be planning a very nice evening.” You can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes you, and she starts in surprise. “Um?”

You only shake your head. “Sorry. No, it’ll be. A nice evening.” You give her a considering look. “Do you want to stay?”

She smiles brightly at you, handing the bottle into your hands. “I wish I could, but I have some stuff I still have to get ready for the Masquerade. The silks the Countess has ordered for the hallways has arrived, and I have to sort through it before they start decorating tomorrow.”

“That’s too bad,” you say sincerely. “Maybe next time?”

“Next time,” she promises with a wink. “I’ll bring enough wine for three.”

You smile at her as she shuts the door behind you, carrying the wine to the little table in your room. There, several tall, elegant wineglasses sit on a tray. You’d been woefully under utilizing them (mainly trying to scry in the tiny surface before giving it up for the larger area of the fountain). You wipe them out carefully with a smooth linen napkin, trying to remove all the dust before it muddies the taste of the wine.

The colour is beautiful, a deep, dark claret that catches the shifting light of the nearby candles. It sets a glow from within, impossibly complex. You take a slow sip of the drink and sigh. You really have no palate for wine.

There’s a knock on the door as you sit, idly swirling the glass in your hand and watching the ways the colours change as they move across the light. You straighten up slightly too fast, wine sloshing out of your glass and spilling on the rich Prakran rug underfoot. “Come in!” you call out, trying desperately to remove the stain with frantic waves of your hand. The door creaks as it opens, and Nadia strides in, resplendent in ombre robes of waterfall silk.

“You’ve started without me,” she observes. You put a foot guiltily over the colourless but still-damp spot on the rug and put your half-full glass onto the table. “Only just,” you say, pouring her a generous glass of wine. She accepts it as she floats gracefully into the adjacent chair, lifting it in a quiet toast.

“So,” she says, taking a long drink. “How have you been enjoying your stay in the castle?”

“You’ve been more than generous,” you say, not picking up your glass again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been spoiled like this before.”

“And yet,” she says, half-lidded eyes sharp under her lashes, “you’re barely ever here.”

You swallow too large a gulp of wine, and nearly spit it back out onto the newly pristine rug. “I. No I didn’t mean—”

She chuckles, and you nearly sag into your chair with relief. “Well I can hardly blame you if Lucio really has been making such a nuisance of himself.”

“Countess, you scared me!” you say, not meaning for it to sound like the admonishment it is. She raises a perfect brow at you. “Oh? Am I so fearsome?”

You don’t rise to the bait a second time. “Of course not. Only incredibly sly.”

She gives you a real laugh at that. “Well, if you’re going to be so bold, you might as well call me Nadia, like I asked you to do in the beginning.”

You smile, when there’s a sudden shuffling at the door, large paws scraping and the huffing sounds of animal breath. You turn to look at her, expression resigned. “Are you ready . . .  Nadia?”

“The question is,” she says, smoothing out her robe as she stands, “Is he?”

* * *

  
“I forgot about his penchant for the theatrical,” she mutters, walking regally behind the hounds despite her obvious annoyance. You are reminded, more now than ever before, that your host is a crown princess before she is a countess. She brushes a hanging cobweb off her shoulder. “Honestly if he can go wherever he likes why not just come to you in your quarters?”

“I’m almost one hundred percent certain that the inconvenience of it all is deliberate enjoyment on his part,” you say, slowing briefly to dislodge a web that’s hit you square in the face. Mercedes and Melchior turn at the end of the hallway, watching to make sure you’re still following. You give them a little shooing motion with your hands. “I already know where to go!” They wait anyway.

“How often have you walked this route?”

You rub your forehead with your sleeve, still feeling ticklish. “Four? Six? Nights?”

“Ugh. He really can’t stand not having attention lavished on him for even one night, can he?” She frowns.

The two of you finally catch up to the dogs, who each take one of your sleeves in their mouths and drag you forwards, as if you have any inclination to resist, tonight. Nadia follows curiously behind you, largely ignored. The room flares into red relief as you step through, the familiar stifling warmth rushing up to greet you. You sigh and sit on the edge of the ruined bedspread. “What is it tonight?” you ask, impatient.

“You _DARE_ to speak to me like that, you little thief?” Venomous words spit into existence, the speaker not yet visible. You lean forwards and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to stave off the oncoming headache. So this is how he wants to play it tonight. You draw proximity wards into your aura, already exhausted. And you say nothing.

“That’s right, control your tongue. Otherwise, I’ll have to assume you’re ready to forfeit it.” You can feel warm breath, circling over the back of your neck, but your wards are holding strong. You almost consider flopping backwards into the bed, into where he might still be, just to see what would happen. Nothing good, probably, least of all for you.

The first night you’d been dragged here by his dogs, you’d been apprehensive. Then terrified, as you realized the unnatural form that you’d encountered in the woods was here, and you’d been dragged into his lair. You’d spent the entire time with your shields up, attempting to escape the damned room and only finally succeeding after some hours. The next night, you’d been wary, as he circled and berated you, heaping abuse without any threat of physical violence.

After that, you’d been so tired the nightly pilgrimage to his wing had become little more than an annoyance. You simply threw up some preemptive shielding and tried not to sleep through his ranting too obviously. Now your head is bobbing on an upturned palm as your lids begin to close. The wine is making you sleepy.

He rounds on you, ready to tear into you for this newest offense, when Nadia finally steps forwards from the shadows. “Really, Lucio, you were always so proud of your ‘hospitality’. Is that any way to treat a guest?”

“Noddy?” The goat man turned, then instantly vanished.

You pop into full alertness. Huh. That's new. You turn your head, twisting this way and that, but he doesn’t reappear. The room somehow seems quieter, less full. Less warm.

“What was that?” she asks, after taking a quiet pause to listen.

“You made him leave.” The wonder in your voice is almost worshipful, but you can’t help how grateful you feel. You’re so, so _tired_ of him. “Nadia, you’re a miracle worker.”

“Now if I only I’d figured out that trick when he’d still been my husband,” she muses quietly, still staring after the spot he’d disappeared.

You rub a hand over your face. “Honestly the more he talks to me, the more I can see how somebody would murder him. In fact, I’m shocked that it’s only happened once.”

She takes a short turn around the room, running her fingers over his old bed, his paintings. “How did I do that?” You follow her with your eyes, wards still ready and waiting. You aren’t foolish enough to not still be wary.

“Maybe,” you say, realization slowly dawning as your eyes trace the expressive lines of his portrait, his commanding posture, the gleam of his metal arm, “he’s too vain to let himself be seen like this.”

“And yet he gets you out of bed every night.”

You shrug. “I don’t count, I don’t think. Or maybe he just hates me more than he cares about how awful he looks.”

“So he’s too embarrassed to appear before me?” She looks pensive. “How delightful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I guess it's a story now?


	3. Liar Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TW: this chapter has some injuries. I don’t think it counts as body horror but just be aware. )

You think, in retrospect, you should have expected this. After all, he wasn't really wandering the halls of the palace anymore, was he? The dirt beneath you feels gritty under your nails. You spit to the left, and taste blood.

Gross.

You hear someone calling you, frantic and loud, and you think distractedly that you’ve never really heard Muriel shouting before. You push yourself up on one forearm and steal a quick glance at your leg. Your left pant is shredded, the edges tinged red. That’s not good.

“Muriel!” you yell, staring directly at the furry white legs as they advance on you. You throw up a shield as his clawed hand comes forwards, reaching for your injured shin. You can see your arms shudder with the effort. You’ve already used so much magic. “Muriel, I can’t—”

There’s movement in your peripheral vision, but you can’t take your eyes off the Count. You can feel the shaking spreading up to your shoulders, down into your core. You can’t hold on much longer, and judging by the way those bright red eyes narrow, it shows. He reaches a long claw towards you, probing. At the edge of your shield, he draws his nail down, down, down, ending it with a sharp, piercing tap. You can feel it giving, the impact of it spreading like shock waves back into your bones.

The edges of your vision tint black and you think, soon, you won’t be able to worry about him anymore. Then you feel the slight shock of steps underfoot, heavy. Running. Lucio barely has time to register the newcomer before he’s slamming into him, large hands fisted and relentless.

“Woo!” you enthuse, clapping weakly. Your exhaustion makes your voice soft but the spirit of enthusiasm still bleeds through. “Get ‘im babe!”

He shudders and you stop immediately. Why are you like this? Why don’t you think, just a _little_ before you contort to fit your foot in your mouth. He’s been fighting for cheering crowds for _years_ , he doesn’t need you clapping for his violence. You draw your hands down to your chest, immediately subdued. And still. So. Tired. You think, really briefly, about maybe closing your eyes for a second when there’s a ferocious growl and you jerk into awareness.

There’s a blur of white fur in the corner of your eye, and you sit up more fully, twisting slightly to see. You take in a sharp breath. Ow. You let your fingers ghost over your side and there’s something _wrong_ there. You try letting the first suspicion of magic flicker at the ends of your fingers, but it’s weak and the energy it takes is making sitting up much harder than it should be. You can’t fix it now. Not yet.

There’s a strange grunt to your left, and you twist anyway, against the pain, desperate to see. You’re sure Muriel’s winning, of course he is, he _has_ to be. But it would help to watch him do it. A leg shifts into view, thick and muscled, and you watch, as it pulls back, a long furry body following. Muriel has him by the horns, and you accidentally blurt out, “Kick his goat ass!” just to distract yourself from the full effect of the image.

Apparently you aren’t the only one affected, because Lucio is moving strangely, and . . . you aren’t entirely sure, you’re still so tired, you feel it bone deep and in places intangible. You know you won’t be able to hold on much longer but. Is he _wiggling_ his ass? It feels more like a performance than a fight now, and it’s making you more than a little uncomfortable. You’re . . . and it takes a second to hold onto what it is, you’re that wiped. But the feeling is building in you hot and familiar and you gasp as you find the pulse of it. You’re _furious._

Everything is such a stupid game with this infuriating non-man and even _this_. There’s no conceivable reason you can think of for him to be here, fighting with you and making trouble and he has the gall to have _fun._ Hell, that’s probably his only goal, he’s probably just bored wandering around this in-between existence and he’s looking to blow off steam. You can feel a pressure building behind your eyes, in your arms. Electric pulses send your muscles jittering, and it’s growing, impossibly, and you’re on the verge of losing it, of having the whole world sucked away from you and then. It’s just gone. A stream of energy so bright and pure that it cuts right through the white figure in front of you. All you see is the way he fades, fast from the middle like dissipating a cloud of smoke.

And then the world is lost.

 

You wake up to a low burning along your right leg. Without opening your eyes you shift slightly, hands running over thick furs and one Inanna, who immediately moves in closer to you. You huff a laugh and hear shifting from a point a little farther away.

“Muriel?” you mumble, tongue heavy with sleep.

He shuffles closer, cautious, and you want to whine. You can’t _see_ him. Something needy starts in the back of your throat but you aren’t awake enough yet to be embarrassed. He huffs a little, then steps into the light.

You breathe a sigh of relief and lift a hand nearly numb from sleep up to him. You’re more awake now that he’s standing in front of you, and your eyes take him in greedily. “Are you okay?”

He shrugs, and the casual shift of his shoulders lets the cloak slip away. You can see something angry and dark wrapping its way over his upper arm, crawling across his shoulder and settling alarmingly near his clavicle. “Oh,” you say, and sit fully. “Um. Can you — will you please come over here?”

He looks down at his feet for a moment, and you think he might decline. He doesn’t have to come, of course, you don’t want him to feel like he has to do anything in his own damn house and you’re about to say so when he moves closer to you, settling in the stool that he’d moved away from the hearth so that he could set you in front of it. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, voice low and resonant in his chest.

You drag yourself a little closer to him, and he makes a noise that’s mostly concern and a tiny bit amusement. He shifts a little closer to you. You reach your hands out towards him, but that’s a liberty you don’t think you should just take, and you drop them back in your lap. “Can I see?” You ask instead.

Green eyes slant down at you, and you don’t know what they’re searching for but they must find it because he slips off the stool to sit in front of you. Stoically he removes his cloak from around his shoulders. Your hands go up automatically but they hover just over his skin. Waiting for permission. “Can I —?”

“Yes,” he says, still watching. You set your fingers on the skin, supple and warm and painted with bruises. He doesn’t flinch as your hands ghost across him. You’re trying to be gentle.

A large palm comes to rest over one of your wandering hands, and holds you still. “I’m fine,” he says, more insistently this time. You nod, a little jerkily. “Oh. Okay.” Then you let the cool slick feeling slide through you, wander into your hands to seep gently into his skin. He starts, then sits abruptly back.

“I’m sorry!” you say immediately, and remove your hands. The bruises on his skin are already fading away, like water spots in the sun. Another minute and they’ll be gone entirely. “Did it feel . . . bad?”

“What? I — No. It felt good. That’s not the problem.”

You flush deep, immediately ashamed. “Oh my gosh, you’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask—”

He huffs in frustration. “That’s not . . . What about you?”

“What?” You blink. “I. I was gonna do that next. I mean, it’s not a big deal, I don’t feel that bad anymore. And I only —” and here you gesture to the wide expanse of his shoulders, trying not to let your gaze linger too long or too hot, “I only used a little.”

He sighs softly, then turns to face you. “Your turn. Now.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from letting any embarrassing noises slip. The quiet earnestness with which he’s looking at you right now is . . . a lot. “I. Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Your voice is quiet now, but you know he hears it because he relaxes in place.

There’s a slight rustling noise and Inanna peels herself off your uninjured leg to curl around your back, supporting you as you struggle to sit upright.

“Good girl,” Muriel murmurs, and he gives her a warm scratch on the head, still watching you.

Oh. Is he going to be watching the whole time? Your face gets a little warm but you can’t say that you dislike the idea. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you tell him anyway, not sure why you’re feeling so unbalanced. “I promise I’ll do it.”

His eyes don’t leave you. “Maybe I just want to see your magic.”

“That’s. . . Okay,” you say, and you don’t know what’s happening, where all your words have gone, why you’re feeling like there are wings brushing lightly against the inside of your chest. You reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull, before you can allow any hesitation.

You toss your shirt on the pile of furs and you’re breathing only a little bit deeper than normal. He’s still looking at you, but Muriel clearly wasn’t expecting _that_. The colour on his face might be nearly neon, a spark of bright intensity that should say _Stay away. Dangerous._ And it is dangerous, you guess, because there’s something happening right at the core of you and you don’t know that you can blame it on your injuries. He makes an incoherent, strangled noise and _oh_ do you like that.

You look up at him through your lashes as you duck your head, running your palm smooth and cool along your side. You can feel the pieces inside you, know them intimately and impossibly and the setting of your bones is easy fluid work. It hurts to start, it always does, but the cool sensation of _correct_ lingers longer than the pain.

You stretch a little, twist at the hip just to check, and you notice the way his eyes follow the lines of your movement, the way his adam’s apple bobs a little conspicuously in his throat. How interesting. You shift forwards towards your left leg, carefully peeling back the heavy blankets. Oh. Yuck.

The fabric from knee to ankle is completely gone, only a few limp stragglers of thread hanging on. And your leg is shredded. You can see it through the thick paste that Muriel’s applied. The shape of it is unevenly lined but it doesn’t look like you’re missing a lot of big chunks. Skin though, maybe. You dip a finger experimentally in the thick green sludge and it goes immediately numb. You cast an impressed look in his direction, and he chokes back a soft gasp.

You’re even warmer now than you were with the blankets on, and you watch him carefully. “Do you think,” you start, breaking the silence. He seems startled, but his eyes come alive, narrowing their focus. “That you could, uh, hold this up for me?” You gesture at your leg, and there’s a slight twitch in one finger but he’s otherwise still. “You don’t have to, of course!” you backtrack hastily, but he only stands and goes to crouch in front of you.

“I can,” he says, and the words are such an impressive impersonation of his typical stoic calm that if you weren’t so hyper aware of him you would miss the way he swallows tightly as he reaches for you. His touch is impossibly gentle, and he cups your leg just underneath your ankle, barely lifting it at all.

“Muriel,” you say, smile teasing it’s way onto your face. He watches you, patient, and you gesture with your hands. “A little higher please? It’ll probably help to bend it some at the knee.”

He obliges, pointing your foot directly at his midsection, and if you had any sensation left you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself from reaching forward just slightly and dragging down his skin. The numbness is a good thing though, this is going to be messy work. You suck in a short breath of air and pretend that’s the reason you feel a little short of breath.

Your hands glow lightly as you start to reach forwards, smoothing them as best you can along your mangled flesh. You can feel things bursting and pulling and knitting together, and while you don’t feel the intensity of the pain it’s not nothing. Your leg is visibly shaking as you go, and you might not be doing it as slowly as you should simply because you don’t feel any reason too. When your ankle is erratically vibrating in Muriel’s palm and — oh look he came closer — against Muriel’s abs, he puts one hand over both of yours and presses down. “Slow down,” he says, and he makes you hold yourself still while your leg still twitches spasmodically against him.

“Right,” you say, breathing only a little bit hard, when you notice that he’s breathing a little bit hard too. His hand is still cupped protectively over you, but he doesn’t need to worry. Your focus is on something else right now.

You lean in a little, you can’t help it. You think idly of making a joke about gravity, because he’s so solid and large and warm and you can see how easy it is to decay in that kind of orbit. He leans in a little bit too, but you can’t be sure it’s not because he thinks you’re going to whisper. “Muriel,” you try, dropping the volume of your voice experimentally. Apparently that’s a little bit too quiet, because he leans in closer, his brow furrowing.

His voice drops too, mimicking you. “Are you okay?” The grip on your leg loosens.

“Uh,” you say, for a second not quite sure what he’s talking about. You can’t stop looking at him, at the genuine concern on his face, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for his cheek. Your hands are coated in his herbal paste anyway, and you want him to have full access to sensation for what you want to do next. “Can I kiss you?”

His eyes go wide and he startles back, surprised. It feels like your chest crumples, all the air in you leaving at once. You drop your eyes to your lap and try for bashful. “I’m sorry. This. I shouldn’t have—” But he never drops your leg.

“I. . . Why?”

It’s your turn to be startled. You jerk your eyes back up to his but he isn’t looking at you anymore, and there’s an unbelievable flush crawling over his face. It’s absolutely beautiful. “Because I want to?”

He huffs in frustration. “But. Why do you want to?”

“Because I like you,” you say, suddenly less confident that you’re as transparent as Asra always says you are. “Was that not, um, clear?”

“But why?” He finally catches your eye again, but he looks more perplexed than anything else, the gorgeous glow on his face mostly receded. You bite back your disappointment. “I. What do you mean? You’re very kind, and gentle and good with animals. And you’re um. Really handsome.”

His face darkens, and you hadn’t exactly expected jubilation but this hadn’t even rated as a possibility. He removes his hand from your ankle (placing it down on the floor, gently, because even now he can’t be callous). There’s something low and angry in his throat, and he stands abruptly. “Whatever game this is, I’m not playing.”

You choke just a little on air. Even though you’re sitting in front of a roaring fire, half-covered in furs (both skinned and alive), you’re suddenly cold. “Muriel, what do you mean?”

“I don’t like being lied to.”

You’re bewildered and a little hurt, wiping your hands aggressively on your shirt to remove the paste because the numbness is starting to feel like a disadvantage in a fight you didn’t even realize you were having. “I’m not lying!”

He looks down at you and it is cold and dismissive. “Stop.”

“What do you think I’m lying to you about?” you try again, desperate. Tingling fingers find Inanna, needing something to hold on to. He’s quiet, staring, and his eyes are so dark you can’t even see the fire that should be reflected in them. Your leg is still enjoying short spasms on the floor and you’re only half dressed (although that might be an evening out of circumstance since that’s Muriel’s usual state of affairs) and you’re tired and still injured and distressed. You can feel your eyes growing hot.

He turns away from you, then stalks over to the other side of the hut. He’s silent for so long you think you might have lost whatever argument you’re having, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. He hasn’t kicked you out yet, but you know he’s too nice to do that until you’re reasonably able to leave, so. That’s not a point that promotes much hope.

“Muriel?” you try again, so quiet you don’t know if he’ll hear you from all the way over there.

And then he explodes.

“Nobody likes looking at me,” he says, forceful and angry. “People avoid me! They avert their gaze when they see me. And then they can forget they ever saw me at all.”

“Oh.” You say. And then, “ _Oh, Muriel_.” You don’t bother keeping the sadness from bleeding through in every syllable, and you try to stand but you can’t quite manage it. He slips a glance in your direction but doesn’t move, even though his arm twitches when you stumble back down.

“Inanna, um, could you?”

The wolf looks at you with her brilliant, clear eyes, then licks your cheek. You let out a sharp laugh, surprised, and she stands, helping you hobble over on your one good leg. Chills crawl down your exposed skin and you already regret leaving those furs and that fire behind. Muriel glares down at her, betrayed.

You don’t think you should intrude on his bed right now, so you settle for sort of leaning against it at his feet. You really have to crane your neck up to see him, he’s so tall. “Muriel,” you start, but he still isn’t looking down at you. “Muriel, please. I didn’t lie to you, I _promise_ , just let me explain.” His posture doesn’t change but he doesn’t move away, so that’s something at least. You’ll just have to suffer what you’re sure is going to be an excruciating crick in your neck.

“I’m really glad to know you,” you say, trying to speak clearly so he’ll be able to hear it from his altitude. “I was really happy to be friends with you. If-if you thought of us as friends I mean. And I would never do anything to jeopardize that. Um. The asking for a kiss notwithstanding.”

“Is that why you freed me from Vlastomil?”

You’re so surprised that he’s talking to you that you blurt your answer honestly. “No!” And cringe. “I mean, if I had seen them doing that with anyone I would have freed them, but. You’re my friend so when I did it there was the additional context of ‘I care about you a lot and I want you to be safe.’ And happy.”

There’s a terribly long silence before he drops to sitting at the end of his bed. “That’s . . . good. That you would do that. For someone.”

“I’m sorry I had to do it for you.”

Another long pause, and then, “Friends is . . . okay.”

“Okay,” you say, trying not to gasp with the physical relief. “I’m sorry about the kiss. The question. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I wasn’t . . . upset. Just confused.”

You frown and your heart gives a stuttering beat. “I didn’t think my crush on you was particularly subtle.”

“Your . . .” He finally returns your gaze, alarmed and flushing. “What.”

“What do you mean what? I just said I like you.”

“I didn’t think you meant like . . . that.”

“Muriel,” you say seriously, and dare one palm against his calf. He twitches at the contact but relaxes almost immediately. “You are one of the best people I know. You’re reliable and so genuinely _good_ and very, _very_ nice to look at.” He doesn’t shake you off or move to leave, so you stumble on, clumsily emboldened. “I like looking at you. And you have great taste in, ah, clothes.”

There’s a pucker of a glower starting on his forehead and you watch as he forces himself to ease it smooth, slowly. “You don’t know the full extent of what I’ve done.”

“I don’t,” you agree easily, and you can feel him tense up under your hand, ready for a blow that you know you would never deliver. “But I know who you are now. You are not your past, especially a past you never would have chosen for yourself.”

There’s still some stiffness that your words can’t ease out, and you don’t know what else to say. You reluctantly let go of his leg and grip the edge of his bed frame, ready to haul yourself up.

“ . . . What are you doing?”

“I thought it would be easier to make my case if we could talk face to face. My neck is getting kind of sore,” you puff out, trying to pull yourself up. He makes a soft _hmm_ noise and then pulls you up beside him, so close (necessarily, it’s not _that_ big a bed) that you would barely have to shift to be in his lap. His hands are large and warm on your bare skin and you do your best not to shift too obviously into him.

“Oh, thanks. Just be careful of my leg, I don’t want to get this stuff on your bed.”

His fingers twitch against your skin, and he responds by pulling one of his numerous furs over, draping it warmly around your shoulders. “Sorry. I forgot other people get cold.”

“Thanks.” Your smile is bordering ecstatic for such a simple gesture, but you can’t help it. You tug the edges of it around yourself and sigh.

“You’re not mad?”

You could almost laugh, but you’re not quite there yet. “No, I’m not mad. I mean, maybe I’m a little sad about it but your not liking me doesn’t change how I feel. And we’re still friends, right?”

There’s a pause ( _another one_ ) and you’re suddenly thrown back a minute like you’re still kind of arguing and you didn’t think he even thought of you as friends. “I meant about leaving you cold.” He’s not looking at you and he feels a little warmer than he did before; it must be the fur, finally warming you up and sending sensation back into your chilled skin. The next words come out so quiet it takes you a moment to realize that he’s said them at all. “I didn’t say I don’t like you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” you say, all soft and wondering, and at this rate that’s going to end up being the extent of your whole vocabulary. “Do . . . do you?”

“You’re not bad,” he says begrudgingly, face still fixed firmly ahead of him, nearly flaming. Recognizing it for the exuberant confession that it is, you throw your arms around his shoulders and laugh into the side of his neck. The stiffness seeps into easy stillness faster than you think it’s ever done before. Strong arms come around to hold your shoulders, hesitating and gentle like he’s still somehow unsure.

You pull back and beam brightly at him. “You’re not that bad yourself.” And you realize, suddenly, that you’re right back in his space, breathing in his air. You can see the way the green of his eyes fractures into silver at the edges, sharp and rigid, can see the way the blush on his face crawls beneath the puckered skin of his scars. You can’t help yourself.

“Just know you can say no and of course that is absolutely okay but. I kind of really want to kiss you right now.”

You can see him fighting not to avert his eyes, to change his gaze, even as his face is lighting up like the sunrise. “. . . Okay.”

Your smile nearly splits your face in two. You dive forwards, so eager, so _ready,_ but you know that he might not be and you barely manage to stop just a breath away from him, the scent of myrrh and cloves and forest so strong you almost whine with want. “Are you sure?”

And this is still hesitant and gentle and sweet, as he presses slightly forwards to close the distance. “Yes.”

You abandon any self control you thought you had, pressing light and insistent against him. Chest to chest you can feel just how hot he really runs, feel the smooth unyielding planes of him and you run an appreciative hand over his shoulders, against the back of his neck. When your brain catches up with you, you jerk back just a little, and he lets you go, arms still carefully pressed against your back. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

“You’re already touching me,” he points out, looking bemused.

You crook a wry smile at him. “But is that okay? Will you tell me if it’s not?”

Something passes strange and glittering in green eyes and he looks down at you for a moment. “ . . . Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” And then you throw yourself back onto him, running your hands unrestrained over his broad expanse with his blessing. He’s relaxed under your touch but he holds himself very still. Well, that’s fine. It just gives you more unrestricted opportunity.

You follow the lines of him with light fingers, memorizing them, the history of him past and present. He shifts slightly under you, then tries immediately to settle back into place. “You can move, you know,” you say, breaking apart just briefly.

“. . . I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” His hands travel breathtakingly slowly from the tops of your shoulders to your waist. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs through you. He stops, and you can feel him starting to lift his hands away so you cover them with your palms, holding him firmly in place. “Muriel, I promise I am very, _very_ comfortable.”

His thumbs twitch, digging slightly into your hips before he starts to rub feather-light circles on your skin. The moan that comes out is barely a breath, but he hears it and rubs with incrementally increasing confidence. You sink back against him, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “I really like you,” you say again, pressing the words against him.

This close, you can feel the rumble of his voice when he says, “You said that.”

“I know.” You press your cheek against him, turning to feather kisses against his neck. “I just wanted to say it again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but the pressure of his hands against your waist digs in slightly, dragging you closer. You can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or if it’s just instinct, but you sigh and nuzzle beneath his jaw, draping your arms around his neck and threading your fingers through soft, mildly tangled hair. He hums low, and you smooth your fingers in small circles against his scalp. You can almost feel the tension leaving him, his posture melting.

“I meant everything I said,” you say. He makes a noise low in his throat and you can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or confusion or some mixture of both. That’s okay. You have time to learn.

“Even . . ,” but he doesn’t finish his thought. Your fingers ghost perpendicular across one of his scars and you can feel him flinch. You lift your hands, peeling yourself slowly off him so you can look him in the face. You can see the slight twitch round his eyes as he fights to keep them from sliding away, and everything inside you goes soft and sad and still somehow fierce.

“You are, you know. Handsome. Just, really attractive, okay?” You lean in to press a kiss close to the corner of his mouth when it looks like he might protest. “Tell me if anyone says different and I’ll kick their ass. Or an appropriate equivalent I guess, depending on the circumstances.”

“And what about all . . . these?” he says, gesturing to himself. It’s not hard to see what he means.

“I’m not afraid of your scars, Muriel.” You run a gentle hand along a particularly gruesome knot at his side, your touch as warm and kind as you and your magic can make it. “All they say is that ‘you have survived.’”

He grunts. “Survival is ugly.”

“Sometimes. But these just make me realize how strong you must have been, and not,” you say, before he can interrupt, “because you’re big. You were in unimaginable circumstances and you lived and you’re still one of the most gentle and wonderful people I know. And that’s beautiful in its own way.”

His mouth twists a little and he draws you in, still so heartbreakingly soft and gentle, and you fold yourself into his embrace. You mean every word you’ve said to him tonight, and you want to prove it. So you kiss all along the ridge of scar quartering his cheek, kiss down thin lines that extend towards his throat, little nicks against his clavicle. You press love into the spaces where it was pulled out in blood and violence and his arms around you tighten. You’ve never felt more safe.

When you finally decide you would like to reacquaint yourself with the concept of breathing, you’re both already tucked against each other on his bed. You’d long since wiped the herbal paste off your leg, and while it still doesn’t look great, you can safely guess you’ve finished about seventy-five percent of the healing. He’d been concerned, but honestly it was doing fine for now, and after the rate you’d started at an overnight break might be a good idea anyway.

“Your leg,” he says again, concern laced into his words.

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him, hand curled against his chest. “I’ll finish the rest of it when I wake up, I promise.”

“Right when you wake up,” he presses, and you nod sleepily against him. If you get distracted when you wake up in the morning and put it off for about half an hour, well. That’s not entirely your fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be continuing this as another story! I just can't leave my favourite boy behind, so the pairing is going to be changed. If you only wanted Muriel/Reader, then the next part won't really be the same. Thank you for reading this for so long, and for sticking with me!


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